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That Teenage Feeling

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"Okay," Narancia announces, three hours into the astoundingly dull drive to-- to-- wherever they're going next. Narancia wasn't paying attention. "Okay. Okay. I am about to just curl up and die of boredom."

Fugo reaches around Narancia's head to tug on his ears from behind. "Let us know when you do, you smell bad enough when you're alive. Gotta get your grody corpse outta here before it stinks up the whole car."

Narancia jerks his head forward out of Fugo's reach, and jabs an elbow backward, hoping to jam Fugo's fingers or something. He succeeds, and Fugo swears loudly and kicks the back of his seat. "Whatever, Fugo," Narancia says loudly. "I didn't wanna die in a car with you, but now it's my number one death location, just for that. Sucks to suck, dickwad."

"My number one death location is as far as I could possibly get from you," Fugo snarls, massaging his jammed fingers. Narancia twists around in his seat to grin obnoxiously at him.

"Are all of your conversations this weird? Giogio, this is weird, right?" Trish asks, poking Giorno in the cheek. Giorno is squished between her and Fugo in the far back of the shitty little minivan they'd stolen, looking entirely unbothered at the seating arrangement. Narancia is glad he called shotgun. (Well, not true shotgun, because Abbacchio has true shotgun. But that's only because he's the oldest, and Buccellati's driving. But Narancia and Mista both get kid-shotgun.)

Giorno just shrugs at Trish's prodding, and says, "I don't know, I don't think it's unusual to have a vision of your ideal death. It has to happen at some point, after all."

"Right!" Narancia chirps. "Like, now I hope to die with Fugo in a locked car where he can't escape, but my number two death scenario is in my sleep on a beach surrounded by hot girls. And like, old enough to have done all the cool shit I wanna do, but not old enough to be ugly yet."

"That ship has sailed," Fugo mutters, mutinous.

"I'm gonna shove my foot into your mouth until you choke to death, and then you'll have died in a car with me," Narancia says cheerfully. "Anyway, Giorno, you sound like you've thought about this too. How-slash-where do you wanna die?"

Giorno looks thoughtful. "I haven't, really, but let me think."

Abbacchio finally pipes up to say, "Personally, I want to die in my apartment." 

"Oh, no," Buccellati murmurs, like he knows where this is going. Abbacchio ignores it.

Narancia decides to take the bait. "Why's that, goth man?"

Abbacchio turns around to make scary eye contact with everyone in the back one at a time. "You don't know this because none of you are allowed to know where I live, but I have a bunch of cats," he reveals.

"You're a cat dad," Narancia gasps. Abbacchio rolls his eyes. "Of course. So you want to die surrounded by cats?"

"Yes, but more importantly, I want them to eat my corpse when I die," Abbacchio says, an awful grin spreading across his face.

"That's reasonable," Giorno says consideringly. "Provide them with one last round of food after you die. That's awfully considerate of you, Abbacchio."

Abbacchio's grin drops abruptly off his face. "I take it the fuck back, no cat apartment death," he says, wild-eyed. Narancia laughs at him, and he turns back to face the road with a huff. "Anyway it wasn't meant to be considerate, it was meant to be badass." Because dying quietly in your own home surrounded by your multiple cats is badass.

Buccellati takes one hand off the steering wheel to pat Abbacchio's knee sympathetically. "Abbacchio, I know you don't like affection and I'm sorry for what I'm about to say--"

"Don't you fucking dare, capo, I swear to God--"

"-- but I am very fond of you, you fucking weirdo," Buccellati finishes, doing the thing where he laughs without laughing. Narancia cackles as Abbacchio actually, literally opens the door and starts getting out of the moving car. He doesn't actually get very far because he didn't unbuckle his seatbelt, plus Mista grabs his shoulder and yanks him back in, but he was serious for sure.

"I'm gonna fucking strangle you in your sleep," Abbacchio hisses to Buccellati, his pale face red. Buccellati is-- giggling, or something.

"Jesus Christ," Trish sighs. "You're all off your fucking rockers. Except you, Giogio, you're mostly okay, but you gotta escape before they infect you."

"Right, because Giorno is the picture of normalcy," Mista says. "Fuckin' gang-star dream-having motherfucker. I say this with loving kindness, but Giorno is at least as much of a freak as any of us."

"Thank you, Mista," Giorno says diplomatically. The fucker's probably being sincere, too. "Also, I thought of what I want my death to be like."

He pauses, looking expectant, so Narancia says, "What do you want your death to be like."

Giorno smiles a little, looking like a tiny little prince-god, and says, "I want to die as an old man, at the cafe at the top of the Eiffel Tower. The really expensive one. I want to have a meal there at age eighty-five and then fall asleep looking at the stars and then not wake up."

Fugo squints at him. "I feel like you're taking this too seriously."

Giorno's gentle smile turns into a shitty grin. He shrugs and says, "Well, either the Eiffel Tower at eighty-five, or I want to be tossed into the sun. Just flung right on up out of the atmosphere, all the way to the sun." He makes a wet explosion-y sound with his mouth and gestures vaguely upwards with his hands. "Plooey. There I go."

"Thaaat's more like it," Narancia says in approval. "What about you, Mista?"

"Oh, I'm not gonna die," Mista says breezily. "Picturing my ideal death would be like picturing my ideal pig farm. Like, other people die, and have pig farms, and that's nice, but it's just not for me."

Narancia kicks him in the ankles. "What ever, Guido," he scoffs. "When you die and I meet you in heaven I'm gonna laugh in your face."

"Hmmm," Mista says. "Whatever you wanna tell yourself, man."

"Okay, Mista's a loser, but what about you, capo?" Narancia leans forward to sling his arms around Buccellati's shoulders.

"Ahh, I'm driving, don't do that," Buccellati says, shrugging him off. Narancia makes a farting sound with his mouth. "Hmm. Hmmmmm. I don't really have any preference for how I die, I guess, but I'd like for my body to be sunk in the sea. Instead of buried, or cremated or whatever."

"Huh," Narancia says. "So drowning?"

"No, drowning's really unpleasant," Buccellati says. "I don't want to die in pain, I just don't have a preference towards, say, getting shot versus some sort of Stand bullshit."

"But you would prefer to be killed in action, so to speak," Giorno points out approvingly.

"Oh," Buccellati says, like it hadn't occurred to him. "I suppose so. It's hard to imagine ever being in a place where I have the luxury to die some other way."

They all sit with that depressing thought for a heavy moment. Narancia very pointedly doesn't think about how if that's how Buccellati feels, there's basically no hope for himself.

"A-anyway," he says, scrambling for something else to talk about, "Abbacchio, tell us about your cats! How many are there, what do they look like, all that good stuff."

Abbacchio shakes his head a little, as if to clear it. "There's six of them," he says. "They're all mutts, none of that purebred bullshit in my house. They're like, tabbies or whatever."

"Okay, but like, are they orange or brown or what?" Narancia prods. "Also what are their names." He's suddenly actually genuinely curious about what a person like Abbacchio names their cats. Blood? Spike?

"Some are orange and some are brown. One of them's kind of greyish. They're all named Cat," Abbacchio says.

For a moment the only sound in the minivan is the sickly chugging of the engine and the whine of the tires as they all process that fact.

"No," Mista says, dismayed. "No way."

"'Cat'?" Giorno asks, incredulous. "You named them all 'Cat'?"

"But-- but why?" Trish exclaims.

"Listen, it's not like any of them come when I call anyway," Abbacchio says defensively.

"Uh, yeah, maybe it's because you named all of them Cat," Mista points out.

"Jesus, I don't know why any of you care," Abbacchio groans.

"It's okay," Buccellati tells the rest of them conspiratorially. "I've been naming them behind his back."

"Fuck yes," Mista says. "God, what would we do without you, capo."

"Name all your pets 'Cat,' apparently. But yeah, the dark orange one is Clementine, and the little orange one with the torn ear is Prince Baby, and the brown one with the dark stripes is Prada, and the little light brown one is Trota, and the orange one with white paws is Ferragamo, and the grey one is Elvira," Buccellati finishes, tapping the steering wheel with each finger as he lists them.

Abbacchio makes a strangled noise.

"Why 'Trota'?" Giorno asks.

"She's got little spots like a trout," Buccellati explains. "It's very cute. She's my favorite."

"I hate you," Abbacchio chokes. Narancia notes with interest that he's blushing.

"Gee, Abbacchio," he says, because he's a shithead, "You seem a little flustered there."

"Hey Narancia," Abbacchio replies, fake-cheerful. "You know the uhh-- the Falcon Kick? From that Nintendo game?"

"Uh huh," Narancia says. He knows where this is going.

"I'm gonna do that. Just, run and leap and kick your head off. It'll be great. I should sell tickets."

"I can organize that," Fugo volunteers. "You know why? Because I can do math, unlike the rest of you fuckers."

"I can do math too!" Mista complains. "I almost finished high school."

"I finished high school literally four years ago," Fugo says.

"As long as we're comparing academic achievements, I actually graduated from my higher ed," Abbacchio says. "Unlike you."

"Okay, sure, but it was like, two years of cop school, and now you're a gangster," Fugo points out. "So like, who's really winning here." 

"You're a gangster too," Trish points out.

"Yeah, but I didn't specifically set out to stop gangsters. I'm just saying, all of us fucked up in various ways, but Abbacchio fucked up the most, in my opinion."

"Wow," Abbacchio says. He sounds genuinely a little stung. "Wow, I mean, you're definitely right, but are we really gonna go there?"

"No," Giorno says smoothly, "We're not, because that sounds unpleasant and unproductive." He's a good kid, Narancia thinks. "Anyway, we didn't all fuck up to end up gangsters. That was my plan from the beginning, if you'll recall."

"Ah, sweet, young Giorno," Narancia sighs, scooching around in his seat to face him. "Sweet, tiny, baby Giorno. You're kind of a freak, and therefore don't count."

"All right," Giorno agrees. "I just wanted to make sure no one forgot."

"Believe me, Giogio, no one has forgotten about your weirdo dream," Fugo tells him.

"I dunno if I know about it, actually?" Trish says. "What's your dream, Giorno?"

"Oh, Christ," Abbacchio mutters.

"Trish," Giorno says sincerely, "My dream is to become a gang✩star."

"Wow," Trish says, grudgingly impressed. "How'd you do that with your voice?"

"What?" Giorno asks.

"The-- you said, 'gang-star' but like, it was like, sparkly?"

"What, like gang✩star?"

"Yeah! What is that?" Trish gasps.

"I don't know. Just my natural charm, I guess," Giorno says, shrugging.

"Oh, no," Abbacchio says. "Buccellati, I know you're, like, attached to him for some reason, but I've gotta kill Giovanna too now."

Buccellati tips his head to the side pensively. "You know, I'm going to have to say no to that one, Abbacchio."

"You never let me have any fun," Abbacchio sighs.

"Oh, I don't know that that's true," Buccellati says.

"Um, gross, guys, I don't know what sex is," Narancia whines.

Buccellati chokes. "Oh, wow," he says. "Oh, no, that is not where I was going with that."

Mista coughs something that sounds suspiciously like, bullshit.

"Oh, man, this is just the everyone-murder-Abbacchio car ride, huh," Abbacchio complains. "Christ, I hate you people. I can't wait until my cats eat me."

"I want to say they'll wait for you to die," Buccellati says, "but you know what? I don't think they would. I think someday if you ever fall asleep without your guard up, Prince Baby is just going to start going to town."

"He would. He would. God, he's such a good cat," Abbacchio agrees.

"Why's he named Prince Baby?" Narancia asks. 

"I got him when he was a little baby. He was really sick and I didn't think he was gonna make it," Abbacchio explains. "I called him the baby 'cause Cat felt too strong for him."

"And then I said that calling him the baby was mean and he was going to feel bad, so now he's Prince Baby," Buccellati finishes.

"No, now he's Cat," Abbacchio corrects him. "He's earned his place."

"He's definitely called him Prince Baby before," Buccellati stage whispers to the rest of the car.

"First of all, that's never fucking happened, and second of all even if it did happen it would have been a slip of the tongue," Abbacchio says loudly.

"Mmmhmmm," Buccellati says. "You keep tellin' yourself that."

Narancia slumps down in his seat to be comfier and lets his squadmates' bickering wash over him. Every once in a while he stretches across the aisle to kick the back of Abbacchio's seat, until Abbacchio catches him by the ankle mid-sentence, fishes a Sharpie from somewhere, and draws a sloppy frownie face on the sole of his shoe.

"Make it a cat," Narancia whispers to him. Abbacchio complies without interrupting himself, adding two little triangles for ears and an even smaller triangle for the nose. Trish leans forward between the seats to admire it and shoots Narancia a little thumbs up. He grins and bumps his fist into hers. "Thumbs-up-fist-bump super combo," he whispers.

"Oh, sick," Trish whispers.

"That means we're besties forever, you know," Narancia informs her. "No take-backs."

Trish tilts her head thoughtfully, then shrugs and says, "Okay, that's cool. You're a pretty chill bestie, I guess."

"Oh, the cooliest," Narancia agrees. "When I die you can have my tape collection."

"What!" Fugo pipes up. "I thought I was gonna get those, Narancia, you fuckin' scab."

"Not with an attitude like that, you don't," Narancia says smugly.

"Christ," Fugo says.

Trish stretches around Giorno to pat Fugo's skinny shoulder. "It's okay, Fugo. Narancia's going to outlive us all anyway."

"It's true. I'm too cute to live, too annoying to die," Narancia says. "It's, like, my brand."

"If that's your brand I'm returning it," Fugo says darkly.

"Too fucking late my guy," Narancia tells him cheerfully. "I'm telling you, you're stuck with me forever."